“Huh?” I blinked. She did not have a face I recognized, in terms of features, but the expression already had my heart sinking. It was the type of look I got from Dad when I used up all the hot water or flipped away from his favorite channel: not just disliking what he saw, but dismissive of it. I didn’t even warrant the vitriol he saved up for Yulia. She got the “you never learn” and “you could do better.” I got the “it’s a waste to even try when you’re not worth it” and tried to be grateful for even as little as that.

The woman shook her head impatiently. “Did you take Shahadah yet?”

“Oh, um”—I fumbled as I racked my brain, sifting through random Arabic words like I was about to hazard a guess on Jeopardy!—“. . . greetings?”

Her lips pursed. It was the wrong answer. “Do you at least know how to wash up properly? You can’t stand here and pray if you haven’t done that.”

She looked me up and down, like something about my frayed jeans and American Eagle sweatshirt implied dirtiness.

In all the years my parents’ divorce had volleyed back and forth, nothing was worse than the awful days when I crept in from a friend’s house to see my father sprawled over the couch with that sneer on his face—eyes taking in the frayed cuffs of my jeans, the oversized and cheerily gaudy sweatshirt with some animated movie character plastered across the front, and summing it, and me, up as useless.

Tacky.

Not fulfilling, for his life and his world.

Not impressive enough to be presented via wallet picture to his boss and coworkers or boasted over in those later days when he openly cheated on my mother, leaving Tinder dates in the passenger seat of his car and running inside because he supposedly forgot something.

I hadn’t felt that way in a long time, utterly scraped out and useless. Until right now.

“What’s going on?” Hala asked from behind me, and I could feel the weight of Sabrena’s hand on my arm as she shouldered up toward this lady I didn’t even know, who passed judgment on me, whose eyes softened as she took in the both of them with their neatly wrapped scarves and kind, whole families.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“It’s okay,” I mumbled, or something close to it, and I turned, ignoring their calls, and made my way outside, not stopping until I was sitting on the curb of the parking lot. I didn’t cry. I just sat there.

It was over. The way I waited for it to be since the first day I softened under the smiles and thought, hoped, it might be filling enough to be here.

The other shoe had dropped.